Sophia Nikolaidou - The Scapegoat

What can you do, word spread.

Twenty-five thousand dollars in a secret bank account, which Rimaris’s son, who was studying at Columbia, milked for all it was worth. The dollars flowed. Everything those guys own is stolen. Those Greek fat cats, the Rimarises and all the other money junkies, built their fortunes while others among us spat blood. And those others weren’t members of the ruling class, that’s for sure.

As for what they said about Tzitzilis, what he did and didn’t do, this is a small place, there are no strangers here. His guys spread a bunch of rumors, all bullshit. That he thought about retiring so as to avoid the case. That he considered suicide — as if a pig like him could have a conscience or self-respect. That he made a pilgrimage to the island of Tinos to pray for the Virgin’s guidance. That inspiration struck and he solved the case then and there.

Not even a child would believe that.

That’s why I’m telling you, use your brain a little.

The Americans, the Brits, and our government — one big fascist roadblock. Jack Talas was a nail in their eye. If they could shut him up, they’d all be better off.

WALLACE CHILLY, FORMERLY OF THE BRITISH FOREIGN OFFICE

I design formal gardens and labyrinths. Here, take my card. I’ve worked for royalty, and for plenty among the peerage. I’m not a gardener, make no mistake, I’m not a manual laborer. I take great pride in my taste, and it’s something the better classes are willing to pay for. I turn their endless caprices into inspired designs.

I have a file with magazine clippings from all over the world. My gardens have been photographed many times, as examples of fine taste. In such a hideous age, it’s a form of consolation. Beauty, my dear, is what makes life bearable. It’s a discriminating choice, and not everyone shares my point of view.

As for the era you’re asking about, it’s now a distant, vicious past. I rarely think of it. It’s true, I worked for the Foreign Office. In those days we rushed headlong into the fire and didn’t think twice. We thought we would live forever. Youth. I have no nostalgia for it at all.

My position: I interrogated prisoners of war. I was head of the Interrogation Center attached to the British Consulate in Salonica. The Service considered me the best informed individual, among non-Greeks, concerning the Communist Party of Greece. I knew people, I knew what was happening. I handled crises. Even Americans and Europeans came to me if they wanted to track someone down, to talk to one of the rebel fighters.

Back then Salonica was a Balkan hole in the wall, filthy and disgusting. I certainly hope you don’t believe the locals’ ridiculous claims about how cosmopolitan the city was. They’re just trying to prettify a miserable, dreadful reality. The foreigners living there suffered, that was a fact. The streets stank, the food was suitable only for locals, the only entertainment to be found was at establishments of the lowest sort. You could perhaps tolerate the place for a certain stretch of time. But there was no high emotion to be had. Anyone looking for even a drop of civilization would search in vain.

As a British citizen I have a practical, empirical mind, I like to speak with examples. This case, for instance. Let me remind you that remains of a European dish, lobster with green peas, were found in the victim’s stomach. A Scottish dish, to be precise, meant to be accompanied by aged whiskey. Talas had wine — I wouldn’t have expected more from that Texan orangutan.

The investigation concluded that he’d dined with his murderers at a seaside taverna. Forgive me, but that hypothesis doesn’t hold water. There is simply no dining establishment in Salonica that would serve lobster with green peas. They may know a thing or two about mussel pilaf and stuffed peppers, but that’s as far as it goes. There’s tangible evidence to the contrary, too: the Greek police searched the bins of every restaurant and taverna as far as Mihaniona. They turned over every leaf and found no trace of that dish.

Which means that Talas must have dined in a private home. The aspersions they cast on me later, that only at the home of a British citizen would he have been treated to a meal of that sort, that one way or another I must have been involved — these were merely attempts to blacken my name. If it ever becomes an official accusation, I’ll take the appropriate measures.

As for Talas, you know what there is to know. He was aggressive and headstrong in his reporting, and uncompromising in what he wrote. An American through and through. He advertised his integrity far and wide, to the point of making himself unpleasant. Wherever he went, he left a trail of ruins and wounds. He pointedly ignored the press releases of the Greek administration. He did his own research, trusted in no one.

When he asked me for information about the General, I hesitated to answer him. I preferred to keep my knowledge for someone else, someone more judicious, some colleague of his who would have a better understanding of what was at stake. Talas was an excitable amateur, not an experienced correspondent.

Don’t forget, he also wrote pieces against British policy in the Middle East. People in the British foreign service took note, and rightly so. They asked their American colleagues to rein him in. But there wasn’t much the Americans could do. Their admonitions fell on deaf ears. The British weren’t pleased, but they had to keep things in balance.

Whoever told you that Talas was the first western reporter to fall victim to the Cold War apparently had no idea what was really going on.

Talas, my dear, went looking for a fight. He saw the glint of the knife and rushed straight at it.

THROUGH OTHER EYES

The Americans readily accepted the explanation that the murder had been committed by communists trying to put the administration and its allies in a difficult position, with the ultimate goal of turning Americans against Greeks. This theory was challenged by a lack of forensic evidence, or hard evidence of any kind. That was the biggest sticking point in the investigation.

In those days of mayhem and rage, one well-respected newspaper published an editorial that lay the facts on the table. If, God forbid, the perpetrators were found to be affiliated with the right, the Americans would hold the entire Greek government responsible. Consequently, there was only one solution . And as the government is weak, powerless, and sickly, having only just managed to get back on its feet, the administration is terrified that this situation might add other troubles to its already long list. So it crosses itself and prays that the murderers turn out to be communists — because if they aren’t, we’re lost , wrote the shrewd publisher, and many of his readers bit their lips with worry.

Around that time, Rimaris’s son, the one who’d been studying in New York and had perhaps gotten mixed up with embezzled funds, went to visit Zouzou at home. He urged her to tell the newspapers that her husband had been killed by communists. Zouzou started to cry, declaring that if she’d had a gun, she would have killed herself already. Rimaris’s son laughed at the widow’s tears and overblown words. He pointed out that there was a perfectly fine window for her to jump out of — he even opened it ostentatiously and stood there, waiting.

Meanwhile at the offices of the Security Police they were tailoring Gris’s file to suit their needs. They made him an officer of the Communist Party of Greece, with the General as his mentor. They said he’d been trained in Moscow, and circulated a rumor that he killed a police officer during the Axis Occupation. The investigation wasn’t turning up any evidence, but that problem could be solved easily enough. His refusal to cooperate became unquestionable proof of his guilt. He walked toward slaughter with his head bowed.